


Night Visitors

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: Uncomfortable topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: According to Clan tradition, three is a magical number, neither good nor evil in and of itself, but important in the power, the potential it bears.   When a brutal man dares to interfere with the magic, the Power of Three is warped, becomes something it was never intended to be.  When he compounds that error with another violent act, a deadly force is created.  Now, a simple rainstorm puts Garrison at the mercy of that malignant force that has been waiting in the shadows of the Mansion for its next victim.  Now the team, and a more recently formed Power of Three must take up the battle to save him.





	Night Visitors

The Mansion was old, and like all old buildings, had its history, its faults, its problems. The immediate problem seemed to be the roof. Especially with the family not living there, and the Ministry in charge of the leasing of such properties from the well-to-do who fled during the war being occupied with more than just general maintenance on one old house, things did go wrong, and it was not so easy to get them repaired.

Goniff had already taken a tumble from the roof edge when the stone, rotten underneath, gave way. He came away with bruises aplenty, but no broken bones or worse, but was told to stay away from his favorite place for practicing his second story work til a full inspection could be made.

The incident with the chimney in Craig's bedroom was the next, ("Flashback") and while they thought that and the adjoining roof damage had been fixed, and it seemed so for several weeks, the next big rainstorm proved otherwise.

"Looks like a bloody waterfall, Warden! Bet you could sell tickets to get a look at that!" as the cons stood and watched the sheet of water pouring down the wall.

Garrison had to admit it was impressive, though he'd have preferred to be viewing it somewhere other than over the place he was supposed to be sleeping! The ceiling was wet a good five feet into the room, and the carpet soaked and squishy halfway in. The bed and bedding, well, no one would be sleeping there tonight, for sure. A quick look downstairs showed the water starting to seep into the hallway below.

As always with problems like this, it was the middle of the night. The guys were all beat, having come back from an exhausting mission only the afternoon before. Now, under the provisions of the lease, they and the soldiers had to 'mitigate damages', so it was up on the roof, already a dangerous place with all those clay tiles, but more so in the wet and the dark, to try and place and weight down paulins over the area they thought the water MIGHT be coming from. Casino had been heard yelling to Chief, something about as much time as they'd been spending on the *#%@ roof anymore, might as well install a staircase; that he was tired of climbing up @*% ladders and in and outta *@*# windows and slip-sliddin over *@#*^ wet clay tiles. Chief just told him to shut up or he'd be giving the Sergeant Major new ideas for the obstacle course.

From the inside it seemed as if that helped, (their work - not that lovely little exchange), well as much as they could tell before daylight, and they all towelled down, went back to bed, and tried to get some sleep. Garrison didn't even bother; there wasn't another free bedroom on this side of the mansion, no spare cots, and although the Sergeant Major had offered to let him use his tiny room, well, Garrison knew the noncom was just as exhausted as everyone else. He spent the rest of the night in the library, stretched out in one of the big chairs, feet on a footstool. Not the most comfortable night's sleep, but not the worst. In fact, one he'd think about with considerable longing in the nights to come.

"I've permission from the Ministry, sir, to open up one of the bedrooms on the locked side, just til the damage is assessed and repaired. They still want it locked away, of course, and are wanting assurances of no damages, but at least there's a bed and it's a place to sleep," Rawlins told Garrison next day.

If they'd known all that was to come, they'd have just gotten another cot from the military, or borrowed one from the Cottage, and set it up in the office, but this SEEMED like a sensible step, and so the bedroom closest to the outside entrance, the one the Ministry directed them to use, "that one and no other, the owners said!", was readied, room aired out after being closed for so very long, fresh linens on the bed, after flipping the deeply stained mattress. The Sergeant Major insisted on the long draperies being hauled out and shaken as well, so full of dust and spider webs were they, only to have them fall apart in the men's hands.

"Just as well, if you ask me, sir. You'll get an infection of the lungs, you will, with those nasty things in there, black mold there was throughout!" They made do with covering the windows with blackout shades from the base, though they had to stitch several together due to the size. Rugs were treated the same way, hauled out and burned, after the way they actually crunched and disintegrated into crumbs underfoot.

Actor frowned, "it's like this room hasn't been cared for in a very long time, much longer than the others. At least from what little I've seen in passing," he added hastily, trying to maintain the illusion that the cons had never even set foot in the off-limits areas, no sir, of course not, wouldn't think of it even! Garrison snorted, {"Yeah, right, not them."}.

Sergeant Major Rawlins was ready to choose another room, but the Ministry was firm; that was the one the family said should be used, and that's the end to it. Garrison ran commando raid-type missions, he was a soldier, an officer, by God!; the idea that he should scoff at a little dust and such, well, it was foolishness. So the room was put together, the inspection of the roof scheduled for three weeks out, supposedly the soonest possible, and of course no repairs possible til then, though he knew quite well who'd get the blame for the ongoing deterioration.

***  
It had been a week and more, and each day Garrison woke a little more tired, a little more on edge. He was snapping at the guys now, even at the Sergeant Major, and even tried snarling at Meghada when she delivered a basket of freshly-baked pastries to the kitchen. That didn't work, of course, she merely asked him if he needed her to make up a 'freeing tonic', with him being so out of sorts, and while that provided considerable (hidden) amusement for those listening and realizing she meant a laxative, the way his face twisted in harsh anger, fact that he raised his hand as if to strike her, well, that shocked everyone, including her. He stormed out of the kitchen, and they heard the slam of his office door.

She looked around, "and just what was THAT?"

Actor shook his head, a slightly worried frown on his face. "We haven't a clue; he has not been himself for a few days now, and it seems to be worse as the days pass."

"Aye, luv, something's at 'im, for certain; thought 'e'd really lost it in the 'and ta 'and yesterday. Was showing Casino something, and Casino dumped 'im on 'is arse, and next thing, we're pulling 'im off from choking the life outta 'im!"

She looked at them in shock; Craig was a tough trainer, but he'd never intentionally harm one of the guys! She looked at Casino, walked over and opened the top of his khaki tunic, to see the dark bruises at his throat.

"Talk to me, now, let me hear you," she demanded, and he flushed a bit, but complied.

"Don't know what happened, ya know? One minute I'm tossing him ta the ground just like he said to do, next, he's on top of me, both hands around my neck, thumbs diggin in. Shit, the look in his eyes, you'da thought I was Goering or Himmler or someone." His voice was hoarse and had a rasp to equal Goniff's, and it was apparent it hurt to talk.

"I'll fix something for you to ease that, inside and out, and get it back over to you." 

She went in search of the Sergeant Major to talk to him, and found him just as concerned and just as clue-less as the guys. They talked over anything and everything that came to mind, and while mention was made of the waterfall and subsequent move, neither gave that any thought as being a part of the changes in the Lieutenant.

She hadn't seen Goniff, not in private, since they'd come back from that last mission, and she missed him, she did. Not just his presence in her bed, but his warmth and companionship, that wide gamin smile and look of mischief, that low chuckle that tugged at her insides. He hadn't been to the pub either; none of them had. She took the opportunity to catch his eye on her way out, and they managed a sweet kiss and hug in an unoccupied hallway.

"I'd come if I could, luv, but 'e 'as us on lockdown." She raised her brows, since usually they didn't pay a lot of attention to that, and he knew what she was thinking, "well, and I'd agree, cept 'e's being right firm on it for now; extra guards; bedchecks, the ole bleedin' lot; expect 'im to go back to 'andcuffing us to the cots afore long. Ain't like 'im, 'Gaida."

He got a worried look, and after glancing around to be sure they were alone, "think 'e might be rethinking, . . .?" and indeed she wondered that as well, though if that was it, it was a long time in coming.

Craig had come to them for help, the warm feelings between him and Goniff had finally come bubbling to the surface, and they'd spent the night in each other's arms. ('Out Of The Darkness Comes The Dawn') He'd seemed fine, indeed most pleased with that, since it happened, had returned to the Cottage several times with the relationship continuing, building, especially after that dreadful flashback of Goniff's out in the old apple shed. ('Flashback') She'd seen no signs of any internal conflict over any of that, none.

"Any change in how he treats you, I mean other than this odd start now?" she murmured to him.

"No, not til 'e started this bit over the past week, and that's with all of us; now, 'ave to admit I'd be worried if 'e DID show up at the Cottage," and that made her raise her brows high. 

She thought maybe she should start doing some research, see if anything jumped out at her. She heard the footsteps coming towards them and she stepped back rapidly, and in a normal tone, "well, and I hope you enjoy the pastries; I'll send over that other for Casino this afternoon," and was gone before the Sergeant Major rounded the corner.

The noncom looked suspiciously at Goniff, who responded with one of those totally innocent looks he had nigh on perfected, and wandered off to be sure he got another one of those pastries before they were gone.

{"Know I'm far gone when I leave that tin with the rest of the guys just to go off and steal a kiss,"} he mused to himself, with a grin. Safety, food, the jobs, mischief, females, that had been pretty much the order of his priorities; now, well, things seem to have changed a bit, even more, with 'females' changing entirely to 'one particular female', and his mates, well, he hadn't really had any of those to be on the list before, and now everything was different, and the order was different too, and here he was maybe letting them eat all those goodies while he was standing out here thinking about how life changed. He hastened his steps, but still thinking, a smile on his face. {"Odd it is, 'ow things 'appen!"}

The cream for Casino's bruised throat arrived with Private Perkins, along with a bottle of herby smelling liquid complete with a label ordering him to 'gargle and swallow' every couple of hours, and he was pleased that it seemed to help. He was still trying to figure out just what the heck had happened, and why the Warden was so pissed, but he intended to keep a low profile for awhile til he figured it out.

Chief was being even quieter than usual, taking to watching Garrison even more, though never being so obvious as to let the man catch him at it. He felt Actor come closer as he sat with one hip perched on the window sill in the common room.

"You figured out anything, what might be eatin' at him?" only to get a worried shake of the head from the tall Italian. They exchanged a look of concern, and sighing, headed to bed, when the Sergeant Major bellowed down the hall, "alright, you lot, get settled down; lights out in ten minutes, and I don't want to 'ear no arguments about it either!" 

***  
He worked as long as he could, but eventually the weariness overcame him and he made his way up the stairs and down the hall, through the locked door into the other side and to the bedroom he now slept in. Somehow, the sound of the lock in the connecting door, as he unlocked it, then relocked it, sounded far louder than it should, more ominous. He undressed, and turned down the light, slipping between the sheets.

God, he was tired. And he was scared, he could admit that to himself, here, in the darkness. What he'd done yesterday to Casino, that wasn't him, he'd never try to hurt one of his own men, yet he'd looked down and there they were, his hands, trying to choke the life out of one of the ones he'd sworn to lead and protect. He'd come back inside the Mansion after that, and thrown up everything his stomach held, and more, he could have sworn. He'd had a firm talk with himself then, about keeping better control, about his duty, his responsibility.

Then today, he'd almost hit her, the young woman who'd become like family to them all, had welcomed him into her home, welcomed him to share the love of one she cherished the most; had his hand raised to backhand her into the wall and part of him had wanted just that, had wanted to feel the impact of his fist against her face, see the blood, see her crumpled body at his feet. He didn't know what was happening, and he was afraid just how far this could go, just what he might end up doing.

Tomorrow, tomorrow he'd see if he could talk to someone, maybe Dr. Riley; maybe tomorrow he could get some help. And he drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

And they came, as they'd come every night for more than a week now, eager to touch him, to claim him. It had been so long, so very long! They'd had each other, of course, as they always had; it had always been the two of them, together, closer than could be described, almost one being in two bodies; well, for most of their lives, anyway.

In the beginning, before they drew breath, and for such a brief period time afterwards, there had been three, and they still ached for his loss, mourned him with each moment that passed. He would have been their strength, their courage, their humanity, but he had been taken from them, and without him, something twisted inside them, had gone all wrong.

Now, they were something different, less than they should have been - in some ways, more than they could have been. They would have gladly traded that 'more', gladly, but they hadn't been given that choice. They had been Three, magical, wonderful - now they were Two-Who-Should-Have-Been-Three, distorted and damaged and ever-incomplete. 

Later, when they realized, they had started looking for someone else to become their Third. Of course, there had been others, others they'd drawn to them, others they'd included in their games, others they'd used up and discarded, only to look for another plaything. But they had been just that, playthings, not a Third. Then, they had found Walter and they hadn't been so alone anymore; he hadn't been a true Third, but he was much more than a plaything, and it had been the three of them, not just the two, and they'd been more contented than at any time since their father had found out, had been so unreasonable. 

But eventually they'd lost Walter, too, and since then, there'd been no one, and they'd begun to think there would never be anyone else, just the two of them. But now, now THIS one had come, and he was young and full of life and spirit and oh so many things, sweet and bitter, that they could make use of, could pleasure themselves with, and they looked forward to his arrival each night with such eagerness. They didn't think he had the strength to become their Third, but as a plaything, yes, as that he was well qualified.

Oh, they'd had no part in making him come to this room, their home; they had no power outside this room, not anymore; it had only been luck, the chimney blockage, the fire and smoke and the resulting damage, and then the storm, along with the age and disrepair of the building, but they had watched in eagerness since the arrival of these new ones, hoping, hoping, and now he was theirs, and they would relish every moment they had with him.

In truth, he hadn't been their first choice. Each of the newcomers had something to offer, some inner weakness, some inner strength, something that they could nurture and use, and they had discussed, debated which would serve their purposes best, should fortune so favor them. They had truly hoped for the one so like he who had been their Third, so small and pale, tucked up so tightly between them in that dark, warm, safe place before they were pushed out into the harsh light; they had so hoped it would be him, so they could pretend once again that their Third was still with them; perhaps he would even have been strong enough to BECOME their Third, so that they could be whole again. But this one had come instead, and they were not fools, to turn aside such a rich gift, not after so long.

They waited in the shadows til he undressed, down to those foolish undergarments he wore, til he turned down the lights, til he slept. Then, then they could begin.

He was laying on his side, pillow clutched in his arms, when he felt the covers rise and the body slip into the bed behind him. He tried to open his eyes; he couldn't. He didn't know if he couldn't, really, or if he just didn't want to see, didn't want to know who had just moved so close, close enough to touch. He remembered now, at least enough to be half aroused, half frightened. The strong hand slid up his arm, turned his chin so those lips could cover his, could take his breath away so he couldn't draw any into his now aching lungs, and he moaned, whether in protest or not, he wasn't sure. Soon, the hand moved away so he could breathe again, drawing in great gulps of air, but now slid down his naked chest, over his budding arousal; he tried to pull away, but he couldn't move. The hand didn't stop, teasing, stroking, and soon he was hard and sweating, and now the sheet and his clothing were being drawn away, and now there was nothing between that hand and his trembling body.

No, not hand, now there were hands, and he knew the other one had joined them, and though the arousal didn't diminish, he knew the fear was even stronger. He remembered those hands, what they'd done, what they had inflicted on him. He remembered fear, and longing, and need and release and satisfaction. And he remembered thoughts that sickened him, thoughts that surely couldn't have been his, since they were of hurting the ones he cared about, hurting them, humiliating them, causing them pain, forcing them to do things they didn't want to do, ultimately taking their lives, and searching for the next one to repeat the circle. 

Maybe it was those last thoughts that came to him that let him break away, just for a moment, just enough to call for help. For those last thoughts that came rushing into his mind were of the small blond Englishman, of all that could be done with and to that sleek, fragile-seeming body; of all the ways it could be taken and broken, of all the ways of making the screams come, seeing the blood streak that lovely pale skin, of how to make his death last, how long he could be kept alive but still on the verge of dying, how to wring the most pleasure from it. Maybe it was that, the sheer vile impossibility of those thoughts, that allowed him to scream, scream and continue screaming, til the pounding footsteps told him they were coming, someone was coming to end this, and he sank, shuddering, into the crumpled sheets under him. 

They poured through the door, Casino having to pick the lock and having a lot more trouble with it than you'd think from such a flimsy thing. They surged into the room to find him, naked, facedown on the bed in the tangled sheets, shaking, making noises it hurt them to hear. After checking the blackout blinds, they flipped on the light, now appalled and bewildered at the long deep and bleeding scratches on his body, the bruises, reddened handprints, what looked like pinch marks. They tried to turn him over, but he resisted, and Goniff realized.

"Chiefy, get that sheet up 'ere and cover 'im, eh?"

Craig moved away from their touch, and Actor saw his eyes were still closed, and urged, "Craig, open your eyes, it's alright, it's just us, come on now, open your eyes," to get a breathy, "I can't; they won't open."

Goniff disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a damp washrag and sat on the bed beside him, feeling him start away at the feel of the mattress dipping. "Easy now, just gonna wash your eyes; got them all stuck together, you 'ave; it's alright," in a low soothing voice before he reached out to do just that. When Garrison jerked away, "NO! Don't!", the mask started to loosen a bit, the strings holding it in place starting to become untied.

"Stop that now, don't be a silly twit, Craig!" came in a much sharper tone from the Englishman, raising the brows on everyone else in the room. The Sergeant Major started to protest, but a quick frown and shake of the head from the Italian stopped him. Still, the noncom thought, {"even as bad as 'e looks, shouldn't be talkin' to 'im like that; aint proper,"} only to be surprised when Garrison calmed at the admonishment and muttered a low "sorry!", meekly allowed his eyes and face to be washed. 

The others were watching, but neither Goniff nor Craig was paying any attention. His eyes gradually pulled open. A twitch of his lips, his best brief attempt at a smile, green eyes looking into pale blue ones, and a hoarse, "I knew you'd come if I called, I just couldn't call, I just couldn't . . ."

"Well, you ruddy well managed, even if it did take awhile. Surprised 'Gaida ain't at the front door by now, probably could 'ear you all the way to the Cottage."

All this in a soothing, almost crooning voice, all the while wiping his face, his chest and arms of the sweat, holding up each trembling hand in turn, noting that his hands, his nails had no blood on them; knowing for sure the scratches on his back and hips weren't from his own hands, though he couldn't really see how they COULD have been. He glanced up at the others, nodding down to those hands, to see realization in their eyes as well, seeing them look at each other in continued bewilderment.

Finally, noting the trembling coming to a stop, he said, "let's get you into a shower, eh? Soaked thru the sheets and all, you 'ave," and motioned to the others to help. Together they got him upright, still wrapped in the sheet, and into the bathroom, next to the shower door. 

"I'll be fine, just give me a minute, I'll be right back out," but then stumbled and almost fell as he took one of the two steps to get him into the shower.

"Yes, it looks as if you will be just fine," came from Actor with a snort while catching him and steadying him, and to their surprise, Goniff onehandedly undid and slid out of his pants and now clad only in his boxers moved forward.

"Come on, now, we'll get this done together; the others'll get the bed ready," only to get a wild eyed stare and violent shake of the head. "All right, then, so you'll come back with us, take my cot and I'll make do with the floor; won't be the first time, won't be the last; spent many a night with no more than a bit o floor and a blanket and glad to get it," nattering on, trying to distract the man in his grasp.

At a questioning look from Actor, he nodded, "I've got 'im; will need your 'elp when we come back out, though," and he pulled the sheet away, dropping it to the floor, together they stepped into the shower and closed the door behind them. 

The sound of running water, "now, let's get this done and over, two minutes, no more, ain't that w'at you always tell us, lest we've been running the obstacle course? Can't go using all the 'ot water; guys'll be wanting their share come morning, turn around now, let the water, yes, that's right," all in that low comforting voice. Something from Garrison, too low and indecipherable to understand. Then a change in Goniff's voice, a slight huskiness mixed with a hint of amusement, and certainly affection, "and none of THAT; we're at the Mansion, Craig, not the Cottage, remember," which again raised a few eyebrows in the room.

The water shut off, "throw in a couple of towels," and Casino did that. The door opened and a much more wide-awake Garrison, draped in a towel leaned against the doorframe, the soaked and dripping blond Englishman having his hands at his waist in support. The others took over, helping Garrison into a chair, trying not to notice the tent in his towel, or the one Goniff was showing through those now soaked and less than concealing shorts, or the slight flush to the pale man's face.

Left behind to get out of his wet underdrawers, dry off with yet another towel and back into his trousers, he started, "mates, we'll get 'im settled, then I want to make a call down to 'Gaida, see . . ." and the slam of the shower door, a startled cry from the man who seemed to have been thrust back within, and what sounded like a struggle.

Garrison tried to get up to go to help, but was too weak, but the others weren't, and they dashed in only to find the shower door firmly in place, even though there was no lock or anything other than a simple handle. Finally, Chief dashed to the hall to grab the fire ax from the wall, and using that they broke in, to see their friend writhing on the wet tile floor, towel coiled into a rope, twisted around his neck, his hands desperately trying to pull it away. They all reached for the towel, and felt the resistance, and icy cold surrounding them, and then, it was gone. It was just them, them and the choking and shivering man on the floor and they grabbed him and bundled him into the bedroom, and then dashed the two men to the dorm.

Once there, once Craig was firmly ensconced in Casino's cot with Actor tending the scratches on his back, Goniff back in his own cot, now dried off and in dry shorts and undershirt, blankets cradled around him, the fireplace built up heating the room, the others, including the Sergeant Major, stood and looked at each other. 

"I think we all need a drink. And our weapons," Actor said, with a look at the noncom who gave a shaky nod. They weren't allowed weapons except for practice and when leaving on a mission, (other than Chief's knife that the Sergeant Major tried to pretend he didn't see), but he thought this served as an exception if anything ever did! He didn't know if they'd do any good, but it would be comforting to have them at hand; he surely intended to keep his close!

"We'll be standing guard tonight, two at a time, I think. And a call to the Cottage first thing; she may have some idea of what the hell is going on, what to do," Actor said, to the firm agreement of everyone in the room. They tried to sleep, those not on guard, and even Garrison dozed off, though a very uneasy sleep, moving and turning and small sounds of distress coming from the cot, til there was a shifting and a rustling, the sound of a cot being moved slightly, and the troubled noises, the constant movement stopped, and he eased into a deep sleep. And if those on guard had noted the arm now stretching from Goniff's cot, to where that talented hand, those nimble fingers could now stretch across Garrison's chest, grasp Garrison's far shoulder, they said nothing, made no sign, not even meeting their fellow's eyes to see if they'd seen as well. It seemed too private a thing for that, even the Sergeant Major agreed.

The call went out to the Cottage at first light, and she was on their doorstep so quickly they wouldn't have thought it possible for her jeep to move that fast; her hair wasn't even its customary coronet, just in a still wet half-braid over one shoulder. She sat in the kitchen with them, listening to their story, and when Craig stuttered to a stop only a sentence or two into the telling, suggested the others leave them for a bit. They did, uncertain about leaving them alone, but the relief in Garrison's drawn face convinced them. 

She listened, shivered at what she heard, knelt down in front of him to unbutton his shirt, easing his panicked start, with a gentle but firm, "shush, Craig, your eyes are wide open. You know it's me; you know I'll not hurt you; I just need to see the bruises, the marks," and he took a deep breath and nodded.

{"No, she's never hurt me, she has never done anything I didn't want her to do, never would,"} and his trust in her was enough to let him relax somewhat while she moved his shirt up and aside. She asked some questions that made him cringe, her not trying to increase his discomfort, not in any meanness, but in a way that told him she was searching for some meaning in what had occurred.

"And you never experienced this anywhere except in that room? And you were left alone once you were in the dorm," and he tilted his head in question.

"Left alone?"

And she knew then he truly didn't understand, somehow thought this had come from inside him, and she shook her head at him in loving exasperation, her love's love, who seemingly wanted to take on all the world's ills as his own.

"Craig, you are not responsible for everything that happens, and one day maybe we can see you come to a realization of that! Something, someone caused this, yes, but not you, and that's what we have to discover! That, and how to stop it, of course. In the meantime, you'll need to stay with the guys, or come to the Cottage," knowing he'd not be likely to leave his men to go to stay in officer-land at the Base, nor wanting him to, in case whatever this was could follow, and he be among uncaring, unknowing strangers.

"I've room, could fit all of you in there, between the three buildings. It's not like we've not done it before. It would be perhaps not luxury, but . . ." only to receive a firm shake of his head.

"Not yet, not unless we have to; the Brass, well, I can just see me explaining we moved out of here, down to your place again because of me being, what? 'Possessed?' 'Haunted??!'"

And was still, somehow, surprised, at the way she didn't flinch at those words, the words he'd been trying to avoid even thinking; as if those words were ones she'd already considered.

"Well, we'll see; maybe the dorm will suffice for now. I've some calls to make, some questions to ask, and I'll want to browse through the library. In the meantime, let's lock up that connecting door again, and be sure no one heads over to that room, not to clean, not for any reason!"

The Sergeant Major was a trifle disconcerted at receiving that instruction, but a good look at both their faces convinced him they meant it, and truthfully, what he'd heard and seen from last night made him amenable to just about any action they thought it best to take.

That night, and the following ones, Craig joined them in the dorm, one of the spare cots from the Cottage being brought up and set up between Goniff's and Casino's. Somehow, the placement was never questioned, just as that comforting hand in the night was never questioned, not by the two, not by the others.

***  
She had brought bourbon, good stuff, two bottles, which was a pretty good indication of just how troubling she found the information she'd gathered, along with two old leather-bound journals, one larger, one smaller, but both faded with age. They sat here, all of them, including the Sergeant Major who was becoming more of the group than he or they were comfortable admitting, (they weren't really uncomfortable with the FACT, so much, just the verbalization, which she found amusing), in the common room, mismatched glasses each holding a generous portion of the amber liquid. "Ballantine, Alice and Alisdair Ballantine. Brother and sister, twins it was said, lived here in the Mansion, which has been owned by the Ballantine family for a very long time. Born 1813, died 1838. Twenty-five years. Usual troublesome things showing up early, missing pets, that sort of thing. Later, well. . ."

"They were strangled by their father when he realized just what was going on. Whether that was in outrage at their activities or in fear of the authorities becoming involved and drawing unwanted attention to himself, well, that is not so clear, but from what else I've discovered, I'd think it would be latter. Their own incestuous relationship, the suspicions about local children being victimized, then later, young women, young men as well. Their father and his butler strangled them in that bed, along with their latest 'toy', a young man from the village. No charges, of course; Ballantine was too important, his voice pretty much ruled around here, it seems, and everyone accepted him taking care of his own dirty laundry in his own way. Even the young man's family knew better than to kick up any fuss."

"That was their bedroom? The one Craig was in? They SHARED a room??"

"No, Alice's bedroom was in the North wing, Alisdair's in the East. The room Craig was in? That was their old playroom when they were children; later, they'd secretly moved in the bed, and it became their NEW 'playroom'; it was where they played with those they considered their 'toys'; their father found them there the night he killed them." 

"They left a journal, Alice and Alisdair; they took turns writing the entries. It makes fascinating reading, if you are a scholar into deviant mental disorder. I know I stopped to throw up more than a few times in the reading, and I'd always thought I had a strong stomach! The incest was, although extremely bizarre in many ways and detailed meticulously, the mildest, least disturbing part of the journal. They had thoroughly mixed pain, at least the giving of pain, and death and blood and desire in their minds; they idolized the Marquis de Sade and sought to expand on what they read in his books, as well as the writings from Caligula and others of that like; they studied the early writings in what we would now call psychology, although that, of course, wasn't officially considered a viable or well-known field of study til well after their death. They were especially fascinated with how innocence, guilt, curiosity, shame, anger, desire, all could be manipulated in their victims to cause certain reactions, how they could control their victim by such manipulations."

"One odd thing that seemed to be consistent. The midwife who delivered them, she was found strangled the day after they were born, but not before she'd whispered to a friend that there had been three babes, not two; another boychild, half the size as the others, his limbs perhaps just not quite right, though she hadn't been sure of that, it could just have been temporary from the trauma of the very difficult birth that took the life of their mother. That the father had sent her from the room, and when she returned, there were only the two; she received good coin and left, but knew what the father had done. Part of her job was to keep her lips shut, but that was too much for her not to share."

"Their journal, well, it keeps coming back to a mention of 'our Third', 'he who was to be our Third'. She wrote in one passage about, 'perhaps the hunger would have been less, the need not so overpowering, if it had been the Three as it was intended to be. He was to have been our strength, our courage, our humanity; that was what he was to have brought to us, what was lost when he was taken from us." She mentioned that they had been told it had always been just them, that they were being foolish to think otherwise, but they never doubted there had been another, triplets, not twins."

"It seems they had a fairly hellish childhood, their mother dead, the father and the butler having, well, strange ideas of the roles children were to play in a household." She said that last with tightly clenched teeth, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and Casino remembered his Uncle Luigi and cursed.

"It makes me wonder if some of ways in which they were twisted, if that was not just the loss of their Third, but the example of those two who had the rearing of them. It makes me wonder if perhaps some of those children, some of the young men and women from the area who were put to the twins' account, might not be better listed against the account of those two men instead; certainly, after the twins' deaths, there was a pause in such events, but they started up again within the year, ceasing only at the deaths of the two men. That is, until quite a bit later." 

"The room was sealed off and not used again til around 1885, when distant family arrived after an epidemic in their home town. One young man, Walter Ballantine, was given that room, and although he complained at the beginning of hearing noises in there, soon he stopped complaining and seemed most content. He was an invalid, confined to a wheelchair, and kept to his room most of the time. He also left a journal, detailing the visits from Alice and Alisdair, how they seduced him, and then how he became a full partner in their schemes, til he hung himself in 1892 (or someone did it for him, for his journal didn't indicate any such prior intention, and it's difficult to see how a man in his condition could have done so - he was found hanging from one of the rafters in an old barn on the property, long since torn down). Again, the room was sealed and supposedly orders were given not to open it again. All valuable items had been stripped from the room, so it just sat there, mouldering away, til it was opened again after the roof starting giving trouble." 

"And THAT was the room they directed we use???!" Actor asked with incredulity.

"Yes, it seems since it was the only room with 'no real valuables', it would be best, I suppose. And, in their defense, this generation of the family would probably have had no knowledge of the history, only the knowledge that that room wasn't used, and had never been used in their lifetime. The condition of the curtains and the carpets seemed to corroborate that, at least from what the Sergeant Major told me. The amount of dust on those journals certainly didn't indicate anyone had looked at them for a very long time. 

"And what can be done about it?"

A shrug, not one of unconcern, certainly, but of genuine bewilderment. "I don't know, it's certainly not my area of expertise, Outlander ghosts or spirits or whatever. Perhaps an exorcism, though I've always had my doubts about the effectiveness of such, seemingly more bluster, wishful thinking and prideful thinking than actual resolution, but I could be wrong. Some stories would seem to indicate finding the bones of their Third, reuniting the three of them, would bring them peace; other stories indicate doing that would let them come into their full power and let them roam at will; who knows how sane their Third would be after all this time alone anyway - THEIR sanity, or the lack thereof, is rather obvious. At the least, that room needs to be sealed, and left that way for now. It seems they only came out to play when someone came to stay in that room. I just don't know. It would certainly not be good to try and lay their spirits, or try to destroy them, and end up releasing them to wander further. The journals? While it is tempting to destroy such, they certainly make for vile reading, well, their existence is what led us to some answers, and perhaps there will come a time when someone else will need those answers, though I assuredly hope not!"

***  
The inspections had been made, the Ministry had, very reluctantly, determined that the damage was all age and weather related, had not been caused or exacerbated by the men, and ordered the repairs. They had moved the bigger cot from the Cottage down to Garrison's map room.

The men had invited him to continue to stay in the dorm, but Garrison knew what the Brass would say to that! This way, they could only commend him on his dedication, not lambast him for inviting over-familiarity. A shame, he'd rather missed that closeness, the sounds of breathing in the night, having those soft mutterings to lull him to sleep, even the snoring from the other guys; he'd particularly missed that firm hand on his shoulder that kept the bad dreams away, yes, he did miss that. On his particularly bad nights, though, he'd awaken from the nightmares to a shadowy figure curled up on a blanket on the floor next to his cot, strong warm hand gripping his shoulder, and he'd know he'd been heard and comfort had come to him.

***

Goniff had disappeared in late afternoon; Garrison had worked in the office, puttered here and there, and finally gave in.

"I'll be back in the morning, Sergeant Major; if you need me . . ."

"Yes, sir, I know where to call," came the calm reply. He had the number; he knew where that number reached, but it wasn't his business nor did he have reason to comment. He just hoped the young officer came back looking better than he had been looking. He never asked where Goniff disappeared to; he knew, didn't care to hear any details, either, thank you very much. Enough to know they were both safe, in good hands, the very best of hands, at least to his way of thinking.

He stood outside the kitchen door, starting to turn the knob, then deciding he should knock, then wondering if he should just leave without knocking, when the door opened and his flaxen-haired pickpocket stood there.

"You can't just stand out 'ere, you know; you'll catch your death from that night air," with a kind smile, with just a hint of worry, concern in those blue eyes. He put as much of a smile on his face as he could and went in, to be greeted by the redhead and a small glass of bourbon and a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

The three sat in the sitting room, talking a bit about nothing important. Meghada thought about pulling out her guitar, but decided to put on a record instead, something soft and gentle and low; she wanted her arms free, thinking they would probably be needed. And they were then sitting on the floor, him between the two, and their arms were around him, and he exhaled deeply, as if able to breathe again fully for the first time since this all began. And he let it all come out, his fear that he had been going mad and in so doing would put his men in danger either on a mission, or hurting them directly, or by his being relieved of his command, which would amount to pretty much the same thing. His fear that it had been something inside of himself wanting those awful things, wanting to hurt them. But then, when the visions of Goniff had appeared, he'd known it wasn't him, that HE could never want, could never do those things to him, and that had let him call for help, knowing help would come. 

"Well, acourse, that's what we do for each other, isn't it? We're THERE. We search, we find, we come when called on for 'elp, it's just the way it is, Craig. It seems that's the way it's supposed to be, somehow. What we 'ave, it's not just what's between the sheets, you know; it's what's in 'ere," tapping his head, "and what's in 'ere," tapping his chest over his heart, all with the most solemn, knowing smile, nothing like that mischievious grin they were used to seeing on his face. And those blue eyes caught at his green ones, and they turned to see the brown eyes facing them, and reached out to her as well, and they were tight against each other, heads resting on shoulders, arms encircling.

"Come along, loves, time for bed. I've missed you both, you know," and her smile warmed them, and they settled in together, shifting, adjusting til they were comfortable. Perhaps in the morning there would be heat, passion, but for now, it was the gentle warmth that needed nothing more than their closeness, the sound of the others' soft breathing, the feel of their bodies next to each other; and it was enough, yes, and more than enough. And sleep came, and it was deep and dream-free and untroubled, and it was good.

***  
They'd failed! It seemed impossible, but they had failed! He'd been here, so soft and vulnerable, so frightened.

Their anger flashed, and the chair in the corner rose and dashed itself against the wall with a resounding crash, shattering it to pieces. How had he managed to break away, call for help? They had thought to take their revenge, destroy the small pale one he'd called to when he was alone, but even that had been kept from them. How had they managed to escape? It wasn't fair! They clung to each other, her comforting him as she always had, always did. 

He cried in her arms, "he shouldn't have been strong enough, none of them should have been, not against the two of us! No one has ever been strong enough!"

And she rocked him, and stroked his hair, ran her hands over the scars on his body left by their father and his friend. "But, darling, it wasn't just him. There were Three; he wasn't alone. The other fair one, he was there, as well. And SHE was there." 

He looked up at her, uncomprehending. "She? I saw no woman . . ." to get a shake of her head.

"I know, but she was there, bound together with the two of them, and together they were too strong. When we called the visions, we made a mistake in using the pale one; he was our Toy's Second, the one HE would have protected at all cost, the one he would have never used as a toy himself; when he called, the Second came, and with him, also the Third, though not in body, only in the strength of her spirit." 

She brushed her head against his, "it will be alright, my darling. They won't stay forever, and in time, another will come, and he will be alone, and maybe another like Walter will come too, and again, we will be Three. We just have to be patient," and he sighed against her, and she curled around him, soothed him, as they had done even before being cast into this world that first time, three to become two in no more than the blink of an eye; two now searching forever to become three again.


End file.
